Chapter 15
Conalle managed to convince Solveig to wait for Westley and Noren.
They had bickered like school younglings—she insisted she leave, without the prince and his companion, to follow what looked like the trail of her people’s escape. And he insisted the Idavoll Fae who’d tortured her join them.
“You might not like it, Sol, but you need them,” Conalle said.
Solveig’s skin itched at the thought of needing her captors. Though he owed her nothing, the prince’s actions felt as much of a betrayal as Latham’s and Laeknir’s.
She didn’t need him. She needed to be rid of him.
“Give me one good reason,” she demanded.
Conalle stared at the sky like he was begging Valhalla for the answer. Or for patience.
“West was just as blindsided as you were, I’d say even more so, at his grandfather’s involvement.” She made to open her mouth, but he continued before she could object.
“Everything he’s been taught, the very foundation he’s lived his life on is crumbling. He didn’t know his orders came from the King of Hel, he didn’t know it had been a vast manipulation of Idavoll. And he doesn’t know why.
“Ragnvald knew your identity and yet he tasked the prince with decades of scouring the Trifold for the traitor . . . when all along it had been him who’d gifted the mortals with the power to end the War of Realms and steal magic.”
Sometimes Solveig forgot, given how unserious Conalle could be, that he was the liaison between realms for a reason. He could be quite convincing when he needed to be.
“And he didn’t turn you in the moment he found out who you were. He could have but he didn’t.”
She hated that he made some good points.
“Fine, but if they piss me off, I’m dumping their sorry asses in Idavoll along the way.”
Conalle’s humourless face split into a wide grin and he scampered off to collect her unwanted companions.
She took a steadying breath, not yet decided on where she and the prince stood and unwilling to figure it out.
It was not lost on her that she wouldn’t be alive without him. He’d saved her from dying of the wound his friend had inflicted.
And yet, his position in Idavoll and the fact that he’d kidnapped her were enough to question his motives. Did he need her alive for something else? Was his one of the betrayals from the prophecy? Was it even a betrayal when they didn’t know each other before he captured her?
Three betrayals. One ends in death, one in forgiveness, and the other in Hel.
With the sting of Laeknir’s deception still fresh, she was hesitant to place her trust in anyone, let alone someone who, until recently, had done nothing but harm her.
She could forgive the capture, the torture, for her hands were not clean of war crimes. Crimes she would commit again and again in order to save her people, to restore magic. And that was the problem.
His actions could be forgiven, but she couldn’t trust that he was finished torturing her. How could she be sure this wasn’t some great ploy to further his own cause? And the question she’d mulled over since he’d arrived in the Southern Wilds was why? Why didn’t he turn her over to his parents?
She’d only known the prince for a little less than a year, and in that time they’d both kept secrets from each other.
Not ideal conditions for trust to grow.
His grandfather was the King of Hel, and while she couldn’t fault him for his lineage—gods knew she hoped not to be judged by hers—she didn’t know him enough yet to understand what that connection meant to him. He’d blindly followed his parents. Would he blindly follow his grandfather?
She was brushing down Helle when the three males crested the ridge and came into view.
At least for the time being, the prince and his motives would have to wait. There were more important things to deal with—like the survival of her people and getting back to Asgard.
She would use whatever the prince gave her, truth or not, and seek advice from the queens before deciding her next moves. As soon as they had a plan in place, she would be free to search for Gerrie.
It was difficult to appear unburdened by their presence when Conalle dragged them to where she was waiting. Especially when she sensed the prince scanning every inch of her body, as if searching for any wounds. Solveig didn’t like the feelings that arose under the weight of his stare.
Confusion was not a familiar emotion—if it could even be called that.
“It’s sore but healing,” she said, answering the unasked question in his eyes.
“Solveig—”
“Not now, Prince.”
Solveig turned to Noren, who watched her with apprehension more than remorse.
“You get one free pass with me. This was it. If you ever try to kill me again, I will make sure you regret not driving that dagger deeper.” Her fingertips sparked with light, her threat evident.
Noren swallowed. “Understood.”
“Good.” She turned her attention back to Conalle. “Are you coming with me to Asgard or going back to Idavoll with these two?”
Conalle’s face morphed into confusion. But she didn’t want the prince to know she’d already agreed to them coming along. She wouldn’t make it easy for him.
The prince cleared his throat. “Excuse me, who said we’re going to Idavoll?”
“Your grandfather ordered you back,” Solveig said coldly.
Conalle spoke before the prince could. “I’m going with you to Asgard, Sol. That’s where the queens will need me after this disaster anyway.”
“We’re coming with you too,” the prince added firmly.
“We are?” Noren asked, staring at Westley in surprise.
“No, you’re not,” Solveig said.
The prince furrowed his brow, temper clearly rising. “Who are you to order me around?”
“I’m the daughter of Asgard, and you are the prince of a realm that has betrayed the Trifold,” she said, jabbing a finger into his chest before rounding on Noren. “And you just tried to murder me. I don’t trust either of you.”
The prince’s jaw clenched. “In case you haven’t noticed, General, Idavoll has also been keeping secrets from me. I don’t particularly trust them right now either. Also, you just tried to kill me.”
Solveig’s sore muscles tensed, her hackles rising. “You think I can believe a word that comes out of your mouth?”
“I need answers, and those answers are in Asgard.”
“Go back to Idavoll, Prince.”
“Make me, witch.”
Conalle stepped between them, a hand on each of their shoulders. “Okay you two, back up. I can’t handle another stabbing today.” They had inadvertently stepped closer to each other. The prince’s breath caressed her face.
“We can’t waste any more time, Conalle, I have to find my people,” Solveig voiced with barely restrained contempt.
“What people?” Noren asked.
Solveig didn’t answer him, too busy staring daggers at the prince. Conalle sighed. “She found a trail of footprints leading out of camp and into the forest. She thinks there are survivors, and given the skill of this legion, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
The prince nodded. “That settles it then. We’ll help you find them.”
Solveig scoffed, finally breaking eye contact. “And give Idavoll another chance to destroy what’s left? I don’t think so.”
“You were so much nicer when you were dying,” Westley said through his teeth.
“Yes, yes, and you hate her and she hates you, but guess what, Ragnvald lied to both of you, so you have that in common too,” Conalle said, exasperated.
“Your patience seems to be running a little thin there, Connie,” Solveig teased. He was right—she really didn’t have more time to waste. She’d find a way to ditch the prince later if she could manage.
“Follow my lead,” she ordered the three males.
“Always,” Westley muttered.
Solveig ignored the sarcasm as they headed to the stables, grateful they didn’t need to cross the chasm again. Yet another reason they had to get to Asgard. She’d have to send people back to figure out what to do about it. Another problem to be solved later.
They were starting to stack up.
Conalle filled them in on the departure of Ragnvald and the Idavoll caravan. Apparently, Ragnvald had not taken kindly to being blasted into unconsciousness by Solveig’s magic—he was all out of sorts and had fled immediately, leaving instructions for Westley to return home.
Once they reached the stables and found a few stray horses for Noren and Conalle, they took off, the group following Solveig as she tracked the footprints.
By the looks of the trail, they were hours behind, her near-death experience delaying their departure.
Solveig urged Helle on, using what little magic she had to light the way.
It flowed more freely through her, but the majority was still frustratingly locked away, suffocated by that blanket of darkness. The most she could do was parlour tricks, like casting a channel of light ahead of them.
More than anything, she wished she had her full power back.
Soon, she promised herself.
Hours passed until morning rays painted the night sky with navy hues. When they had no more need of her light, Solveig let her magic drop but continued to push their hard pace.
The forest of northern Vanaheim whooshed past, the imposing trees thinned, and the scent of pine was replaced by grass and stone. They had to be getting close.
No sooner had she thought it than she heard the unmistakable sounds of life.
Voices carried on the wind and a fire crackled in the distance. Solveig’s heart lurched as she came around a bend in the path, finally able to make out forms up ahead. An arrow whizzed past, embedding itself in the tree beside her, followed by a second that narrowly missed Noren.
Solveig didn’t try to hide her smirk. Warning shots.
She’d been able to find some weapons in the rubble of the Southern Wilds, so Solveig loaded a bow and shot an arrow back. They would recognize the craftsmanship. Sure enough, no more arrows appeared until they were closer.
“Halt!” a guard called, just barely out of sight, an arrow landing in the ground ahead. Solveig pulled on Helle’s reins and signalled the others to stop.
“It is I, Solveig Tordottir,” she called back.
His sigh of relief was palpable. “It’s good to hear you’re alive, General. Who are your companions?”
“The Asgardian liaison Lord Conalle, the Fae Prince Westley, and the prince’s Fae companion.” Solveig heard Noren bristle at his lack of introduction. It was the small things that brought her joy, if only briefly.
A pause. “Why have you brought them here?”
“They are here to help.” She hoped.
“You trust them?”
“No.”
A pause. “Very well, come forward.”
Solveig led them towards the group, her heart sinking.
“How many?” she asked the guard.
“Sixty-three, General.”
Her stomach churned with bile as the still-healing wound in her heart throbbed.
Sixty-three. Their census last year had been four thousand and fifty-eight soldiers, and three thousand and twenty-two civilians. Sixty-three out of nearly eight thousand.
“Fuck,” the prince whispered, coming up beside Solveig.
“This has to stop,” Solveig whispered. Too many dead. Too many she’d failed.
“I agree.” His grave tone matched hers.
They shared a long moment charged with months of secrets.
“Don’t look so surprised. I do not revel in unnecessary deaths,” Westley said.
“Only necessary ones.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t appreciate a well-timed and well-earned death.”
She sighed, reluctant to admit it. “That we can also agree upon.”
“So Conalle was wrong. We have more than two things in common.”
Solveig scoffed. “Conalle is wrong about a lot of things.”
“You know I can hear you, right?” Conalle chimed in, not sounding the least bit offended.
The prince moved closer to her, but Helle swung her head at Njord and the stallion took a snap at her. Solveig wrenched Helle away so they couldn’t hurt each other.
Solveig scanned the crowd of survivors for familiar faces. She was glad to see witchlings eating a warm meal of roasted meat. There were still too few for her joy to last long, a brutal reminder of how many witchlings usually gathered for supper.
The swell of emotion sent a charge to her magic.
Like a coward, she turned away from the fire, avoiding the visual evidence of her failures. Her eyes snagged on two figures standing off to the side. Before she could react, a body came flying towards her.
“General Tordottir!” Sten’s voice enveloped her before his arms did, and she embraced the young Seer firmly, all while not taking her eyes off the pair who stood watching the interaction.
Unable to read their body language, she was unsure if they were relieved she’d survived. Based on the way Trella turned from her, she guessed not.
The feeling was mutual.